The Delivery Driver

The lock turned with a heavy clunk, followed by the soft metallic scrape of a bolt sliding back.Ethan hesitated.The green door looked like it hadn't been opened in years. Paint peeled in long vertical strips,Rust streaked hinges.There was no sound from inside—just the weight of stillness.

He pushed it open.

The air hit him first—damp, musty, filled with that metallic tang old buildings carried like ghosts. A single naked bulb hung from the ceiling just inside the entrance, swinging gently, though there was no breeze. Its flickering light barely reached beyond the threshold, casting a trembling glow across the floorboards.

Ethan stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind him. The echo of it shutting bounced down a long, unseen hallway.

The silence that followed felt... deliberate.

He waited for a moment, adjusting to the dark, trying to decide whether to call out or just keep moving. His instincts told him neither was a good idea.

The floor creaked beneath him with every step as he moved into the hallway. The bulb behind him stopped flickering, suddenly steady—too steady, like it was now watching him.

The hall stretched deeper than he expected, with two doors on each side. All of them shut. All unmarked. No numbers. No signs. No sound.

At the end of the hall, a faint light spilled from under a door. That was his destination. It had to be.

He passed the other doors quickly, not looking too long at any of them. His reflection flickered in a cracked wall mirror—then disappeared for a second before snapping back. He stopped and stared at it.

Nothing behind him.

Just his own face—pale, eyes too wide.

The moment stretched too long. He forced himself away.

The final door wasn't locked.

He opened it slowly, bracing for the worst.

But the room inside wasn't threatening—it was... clean. Almost too clean. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. A metal desk stood at the center. Behind it, a woman in her forties with sharp cheekbones, silver hair pulled into a tight bun, and a black turtleneck sat motionless. Her eyes flicked up the second he entered, like she'd been waiting for him all along.

"Mr. Cole," she said. Not a question. A fact.

He froze. "How do you know my name?"

She gestured to the chair across from her. "Because you've passed the first threshold."

He didn't move.

She tilted her head slightly. "You came when called. You followed every instruction. And you didn't run when the test arrived on a bike with no soul."

Ethan slowly lowered himself into the chair.

"What is this?" he asked. "What am I involved in?"

The woman leaned forward, folding her hands. Her nails were clean, square, unpainted. "You've been delivering more than you think. We don't hire people for their resumes, Mr. Cole. We choose them for their willingness. For their instinct to move forward despite fear."

His heart was pounding. "What was in the first package?"

She blinked slowly. "You don't want to know."

"That's not good enough."

She gave a small, humorless smile. "Yet here you are."

He said nothing. The key still sat heavy in his pocket.

"There's a reason couriers in this city disappear," she said. "A reason why some routes are redacted from maps, and certain addresses don't exist on paper. You've been inside places most people wouldn't walk past. Seen things others would deny ever existed."

"Who are you?"

"We don't do names."

"What am I supposed to deliver next?"

She opened a drawer and pulled out a black envelope, sealed with a wax stamp. No symbol. Just deep red wax, thick and smooth like blood.

"This," she said. "And nothing else. Do not open it. Do not delay. Do not—under any circumstances speak to anyone while it's in your possession."

He took it slowly, feeling the weight of it. It was heavier than paper should be.

"Where?"

She slid a slip of paper across the desk. An address handwritten in clean cursive: Bainrow Psychiatric Hospital. East Wing. Room 17. Midnight.

The hospital had been closed for nearly six years. Condemned. Boarded up after a fire in the south ward killed three patients and a nurse. No one had been inside since—officially.

"Midnight?" he said.

She nodded. "Don't be early. Don't be late."

"What happens if I am?"

Her gaze didn't waver. "Then the delivery fails. And you... vanish."

He didn't ask what that meant.

Back outside, the city looked colder. The lights harsher. Even the sky above Brinlake seemed tighter, like the clouds were drawing in closer to the ground.

He walked quickly, the envelope tucked inside his jacket like it might burn through the fabric. Every passing car felt like a shadow. Every stranger's eyes like needles.

At home, he didn't sit. Didn't eat. Couldn't. The black envelope sat on the table like a ticking bomb.

11:47 PM.

Time to move.

The trip to Bainrow was longer than he remembered. The roads narrowed, buildings spaced out more, streetlights further apart. By the time he reached the rusted gates, the city had gone silent.

He climbed the fence.

The grounds were overgrown. Wind whispered through broken windows. The hospital loomed above him, windows like black eyes, the air thick with rot and old echoes.

Inside, his flashlight barely cut through the dark. The East Wing was colder than the rest of the building. The halls were lined with patient doors, some hanging open, others sealed shut with rusted locks.

He found Room 17.

The door was closed.

His phone buzzed.

Leave it on the chair. Do not knock. Do not wait.

No number.

He opened the door slowly.

Inside, the room was pitch black—except for a single chair beneath a hanging bulb. The same kind from the green door building.

Ethan placed the envelope on the chair.

He turned to leave.

Behind him, something shifted.

Not footsteps. Not a voice.

Just breath.

Wet and close.

He didn't look back.

He walked.

Then ran.

He didn't stop until the gate was behind him, the building swallowed by shadows.

And the job, for now, was done.